The Road to Frontenac

“They speak a strange language. It is not the same as that of the Ottawas, who once worked for my father.”

“Did you know their tongue?”

“A few words, and some of the signs. This,”–raising her hand, with the first finger extended, and slowly moving her arm in a half circle from horizon to horizon,–“this meant a sun,–one day.”

Menard looked at her for a moment in silence. He enjoyed her enthusiasm.

“Why don’t you learn Iroquois? You would enjoy it. It is a beautiful tongue,–the language of metaphor and poetry.”

“I should like to,” she replied, looking with a faint smile at Danton and the priest, who were sitting under a beech tree, mumbling in low tones.

“You shall join the class, Mademoiselle. You shall begin to-morrow. It was thoughtless of Danton to take the Father’s instruction to himself alone.”

“And then, M’sieu, I will know what the Indians say when they sit up stiffly in their blankets, and talk down in their throats. They have such dignity. It is hard not to believe them when they look straight at one.”

“Don’t you believe them?”

“The three this morning,–they did not tell the truth.”

“Didn’t they?”

“Why, I understood that you did not believe them.”

“And where did Mademoiselle learn that? Did she follow the conversation?”

“No; but Lieutenant Danton–”

“He told you?”

She nodded. Menard frowned.

“He shouldn’t have done that.”

The maid looked surprised at his remark, and the smile left her face. “Of course, M’sieu,” she said, a little stiffly, “whatever is not meant for my ears–”

Menard was still frowning, and he failed to notice her change in manner. He abruptly gave the conversation a new turn, but seeing after a short time that the maid had lost interest in his sallies, he rose, and called to the priest.

“Father, you are to have a new pupil. Mademoiselle also will study the language of the Iroquois. If you are quick enough with your pupils, we shall soon be able to hold a conversation each night about the fire. Perhaps, if you would forego your exclusive air, Mademoiselle would begin at once.”

Danton, without waiting for the priest to start, came hurriedly over and sat by the maid.

“You must pardon me,” he said, “I did not think,–I did not know that you would be interested. It is so dry.”

The maid smiled at the fire.

“You did not ask,” she replied, “and I could not offer myself to the class.”

“It will be splendid,” said Danton. “We shall learn the language of the trees and the grass and the rivers and the birds. And the message of the wampum belt, too, we shall know. You see,”–looking up at Menard,–“already I am catching the meanings.”

Menard smiled, and then went down the bank, leaving the three to bend their heads together over the mysteries of the Iroquois rules of gender, written out by Father Claude on a strip of bark. It was nearly an hour later, after the maid had crept to her couch beneath the canoe, and Perrot and Guerin had sprawled upon the bales and were snoring in rival keys, that Danton came lightly down the slope humming a drinking song. He saw Menard, and dropped to the ground beside him, with a low laugh.

“Mademoiselle will lead my wits a chase, Menard. Already she is deep in the spirit of the new work.”

“Be careful, my boy, that she leads no more than your wits a chase.”

Danton laughed again.

“I don’t believe there is great danger. What a voice she has! I did not know it at first, when she was frightened and spoke only in the lower tones. Now when she speaks or laughs it is like–”

“Like what?”

“There is no fit simile in our tongue, light as it is. It may be that in the Iroquois I shall find the words. It should be something about the singing brooks or the voice of the leaves at night.”

The lad was in such buoyant spirits that Menard had to harden himself for the rebuke which he must give. With the Indian tribes Menard had the tact, the control of a situation, that would have graced a council of great chiefs; but in matters of discipline, the blunter faculties and language of the white men seemed to give his wit no play. Now, as nearly always, he spoke abruptly.

“Have you forgotten our talk of this morning, Danton?”

“No,” replied the boy, looking up in surprise.

The night had none of the dampness that had left a white veil over the morning just gone. The moon was half hidden behind the western trees. The sky, for all the dark, was blue and deep, set with thousands of stars, each looking down at its mate in the shining water.

“I spoke of the importance of keeping our own counsel.”

Danton began to feel what was coming. He looked down at the ground without replying.

“To-night Mademoiselle has repeated a part of our conversation.”

“Mademoiselle,–why, she is one of our party. She knows about us,–who we are, what we are going for–”

“Then you have told her, Danton?”

“How could she help knowing? We are taking her to Frontenac.”

“Father Claude has not told her why we go to Frontenac–nor have I.”

“But Major Provost is her friend–”

“He would never have told her.”

“But she seemed to know about it.”

“Then you have talked it over with her?”

“Why, no,–that is, in speaking of our journey we said something of the meaning of the expedition. It could hardly be expected that we,–I fail to see, Captain, what it is you are accusing me of.”

“You have not been accused yet, Danton. Let me ask you a question. Why did you enter the King’s army?”

Danton hesitated, and started once or twice to frame answer, but made no reply.

“Did you wish a gay uniform, to please the maids, to–”

“You are unfair, M’sieu.”

“No, I wish to know. We will say, if you like, that you have hoped to be a soldier,–a soldier of whom the King may one day have cause to be proud.”

Danton flushed, and bowed his head.

“I offered you the chance to go on this mission, Danton, because I believed in you. I believed that you had the making of a soldier. This is not a child’s errand, this of ours. It is the work of strong men. This morning I told you of my talk with the three Onondagas because I have planned to take you into my confidence, and to give you the chance to make a name for yourself. I made a point of the importance of keeping such things to yourself.”

“But Mademoiselle, M’sieu, she is different–”

“Look at the facts, Danton. I told you this morning: within twelve hours you have passed on your information. How do I know that you would not have let it slip to others if you had had the chance? You forget that Mademoiselle is a woman, and the first and last duty of a soldier is to tell no secrets to a woman.”

“You speak wrongly of Mademoiselle. It is cowardly to talk thus.”

Menard paused to get control of his temper.

“Cowardly, Danton? Is that the word you apply to your commander?”

“Your pardon, M’sieu! A thousand pardons! It escaped me–”

“We will pass it by. I want you to understand this matter. Mademoiselle will spend a night in Montreal. We shall leave her with other women. A stray word, which to her might mean nothing, might be enough to give the wrong persons a hint of the meaning of our journey. A moment’s nervousness might slip the bridle from her tongue. All New France is not so loyal that we can afford to drop a chance secret here and there. As to this maid, she is only a child, and by giving her our secrets, you are forcing her to bear a burden which we should bear alone. These Indians this morning were spies, I am inclined to believe, scouting along the river for information of the coming campaign. The only way that we can feel secure is by letting no word escape our lips, no matter how trivial. I tell you this, not so much for this occasion as for a suggestion for the future.”

“Very well, M’sieu. You will please accept my complete apologies.”

“I shall have to add, Danton, that if any further mistake of this kind occurs I shall be forced to dismiss you from my service. Now that I have said this, I want you to understand that I don’t expect it to happen. I have believed in you, Danton, and I stand ready to be a friend to you.”

Menard held out his hand. Danton clasped it nervously, mumbling a second apology. For a few moments longer they sat there, Menard trying to set Danton at ease, but the boy was flushed, and he spoke only half coherently. He soon excused himself and wandered off among the trees and the thick bushes.

During the next day Danton was in one of his sullen moods. He worked feverishly, and, with the maid, kept Father Claude occupied for the greater part of the time, as they paddled on, with conversation, and with discussion of the Iroquois words. The maid felt the change from the easy relations in the party, and seemed a little depressed, but she threw herself into the studying. Often during the day she would take up a paddle, and join in the stroke. At first Menard protested, but she laughed, and said that it was a “rest” after sitting so long.

They were delayed on the following day by a second accident to the canoe, so that they were a full day late in reaching Montreal. They moved slowly up the channel, past the islands and the green banks with their little log-houses or, occasionally, larger dwellings built after the French manner. St. Helen’s Island, nearly opposite the city, had a straggling cluster of hastily built bark houses, and a larger group of tents where the regulars were encamped, awaiting the arrival of Governor Denonville with the troops from Quebec.

Menard stopped at the island, guiding the canoe to the bank where a long row of canoes and bateaux lay close to the water.

“You might get out and walk around,” he said to the others. “I shall be gone only a few moments.”

Father Claude sat on the bank, lost in meditation. Danton and the maid walked together slowly up and down, beyond earshot from the priest. Since Menard’s rebuke, both the lad and the maid had shown a slight trace of resentment. It did not come out in their conversation, but rather in their silences, and in the occasions which they took to sit and walk apart from the others. It was as if a certain common ground of interest had come to them. The maid, for all her shyness and even temper, was not accustomed to such cool authority as Menard was developing. The priest was keeping an eye on the fast-growing acquaintanceship, and already had it vaguely in mind to call it to the attention of Menard, who was getting too deeply into the spirit and the details of his work to give much heed.

Menard was soon back.

“Push off,” he said. “The Major is not here. We shall have to look for him in the city.”

They headed across the stream. The city lay before them, on its gentle slope, with the mountain rising behind like an untiring sentry. It was early in the afternoon, and on the river were many canoes and small boats, filled with soldiers, friendly Indians, or voyageurs, moving back and forth between the island and the city. They passed close to many of the bateaux, heaped high with provision and ammunition bales, and more than once the lounging soldiers rose and saluted Menard.

At the city wharf he turned to Danton.

“We shall have to get a larger canoe, Danton, and a stronger. Will you see to it, please? We shall have two more in our party from now on. Make sure that the canoe is in the best of condition. Also I wish you would see to getting the rope and the other things we may need in working through the rapids. Then spend your time as you like. We shall start early in the morning.”

Menard and Father Claude together went with the maid to the Superior, who arranged for her to pass the night with the sisters. Then Menard left the priest to make his final arrangements at the Mission, and went himself to see the Commandant, to whom he outlined the bare facts of his journey to Frontenac.

“The thing that most concerns you,” he said finally, “is a meeting I had a few days ago with three Indians down the river. One called himself the Long Arrow, and another was Teganouan, who, Father de Casson tells me, recently left the Mission at the Sault St. Francis Xavier. They claim to be Mission Indians. It will be well to watch out for them, and to have an eye on the Richelieu, and the other routes, to make sure that they don’t slip away to the south with information.”

“Very well,” replied the Commandant. “I imagine that we can stop them. Do you feel safe about taking this maid up the river just now?”

“Oh, yes. Our men are scattered along the route, are they not?” Menard asked.

“Quite a number are out establishing Champigny’s transport system.”

“I don’t look for any trouble. But I should like authority for one or two extra men.”

“Take anything you wish, Menard. I will get word over to the island at once, giving you all the authority you need.”

CHAPTER V.

DANTON BREAKS OUT

When Menard reached the wharf, early on the following morning, he found Father Claude waiting for him. The new canoe lay on the wharf, and beside it was a heap of stores. Perrot and the two new engagés sat on the edge of the wharf. The sun had just risen over the trees on St. Helen’s Island, and the air was clear and cool.

“Well, Perrot,” said Menard, as he unslung his musket and horn, “is everything ready?”

“Everything, M’sieu.”

“Where is Guerin?”

“I have not seen him, M’sieu.”

Menard turned to the priest.

“Good-morning, Father. You are on time, I see; and that is more than we can say for Danton. Where is the boy?”

“He has gone for Mademoiselle St. Denis, Captain. He was here before the sunrise, checking up the stores.”

“Learning to work, is he? That is a good sign. And how about yourself? Did you pick up anything yesterday?”

“Yes,” replied the priest. “I enquired at the Mission about Teganouan and his companions.”

“Well?”

“Nothing is known of them. Teganouan had been one of the worst drunkards among the Onondagas, and his conversion, a year ago, was thought to be one of our greatest victories for the faith. His penances were among the most complete and purging ever–”

“And the others?”

“Just before I left the Mission for Quebec, Teganouan went on an errand to the city and fell among some of our fellow-countrymen who were having a drinking bout. For a few days after that he wavered, and fell again. Once afterward he was seen in company with two low fellows, coureurs de bois, who have since been confined under suspicion of communicating with the enemy.”

“He has returned to the Mission, then?”

“No, he disappeared some time ago. They do not know the Long Arrow. I described him to Brother de Lamberville–”

“Oh, he is here now?”

“Yes. It seems, further, that all the other workers among the Iroquois have had word and are returning. That much of my labour is removed.”

“How do they get this word?” said Menard, impatiently. “That is the old question. It is enough to make one wonder if there are any secrets kept from the enemy’s country.”

“No one seems to know, M’sieu. The Superior told me last night that they had not been sent for, so it would seem that the information must have reached them through the Indians.”

“The folly of these new governors!” Menard strode back and forth. “Oh, it makes one sigh for old Frontenac. He never walked blindfolded into such a trap as this. But go on. You were speaking of Father de Lamberville.”

“It was only that I described the Long Arrow to Brother de Lamberville. He seemed to remember such a wampum collar as the Long Arrow wore. He could not recall exactly.”

“Then we may as well forget the incident. It seems that we are to know nothing of it. Here is Danton.”

The lieutenant and the maid were walking rapidly down to the wharf. Mademoiselle was in a gay mood after her few hours of enjoyment among the comforts of a city.

“Good-morning,” she called, waving her hand.

“Good-morning,” said Menard, shortly. He did not look a second time, to see her smile fade, for Guerin had not appeared, and he was rapidly losing patience. He walked up and down the wharf for a few moments, while Danton found a seat for the maid and the two talked together.

“Perrot,” he said, “do you know where Guerin was last evening?”

“Yes, M’sieu. He was at the inn.”

“What was he doing? Drinking?”

“A little, M’sieu.”

“Go up there, on the run. If you don’t find him there, come right back, for we can’t wait much longer for anyone.”

Perrot ran up the street and disappeared. In a few moments he came in sight, striding down between the row of houses, holding Guerin firmly by one arm. The young fellow was hanging back, and stumbling in limp fashion. He was evidently drunk. Danton, who had joined Menard when the two men appeared, said, “Heavens, he must have started early!”

Some distance behind Perrot and Guerin came a ragged crowd of woodsmen, singing, jeering, and shouting, and bearing broad traces of a sleepless night.

Menard stood waiting with a look of disgust. When they came upon the wharf Guerin laughed, and tried to get out a flippant apology for his tardiness; but Menard seized him before the words were off his lips, and dragging him across the wharf threw him into the water. Then he turned to Perrot, and said, “Pull him out.”

The two new men stood uneasily near, with startled faces. Behind them the maid was sitting, a frightened look in her eyes. Danton had risen.

“Clear away from here!” Menard called to the drunken rabble, who had collected a few rods away, and were now hesitating between laughter and fright. They stood looking at each other and at Menard, then they slunk away.

In all an hour had gone before they were ready to start. Guerin was weak and shivering from his plunge, but Menard ordered him into the canoe. The incident drew a cloud over the maid’s spirits, and altogether depressed the party, so that not until afternoon did they get into conversation. By that time they were past the Lachine Rapids and the Sault St. Louis, where the men made a portage, and Danton led the maid along the bank through the tangled brush and briers. When at last they were ready to push on across Lake St. Louis the maid’s skirt was torn in a dozen places, and a thorn had got into her hand, which Danton carefully removed with the point of his knife, wincing and flushing with her at each twinge of pain. During the rest of the day, they had an Iroquois lesson, and by the end of the afternoon when the sun was low, and Menard headed for the shore of Isle Perrot, the maid was bright again, laughing over Danton’s blunders in the new language.

They spent the next day on the island, for what with wind and rain the lake was impassable for their canoe. The men built a hut of brush and bark which sheltered the party from the driving rain. Menard’s mood lightened at the prospect of a rest, and he started a long conversation in Iroquois which soon had even Father Claude laughing in his silent way. The rain lessened in the afternoon, but the wind was still running high. Menard and the engagés went out early in the afternoon and repacked all the supplies, in order that the weight might be distributed more evenly in the canoe. With this and other work he was occupied until late in the afternoon. Father Claude took the occasion for a solitary walk, and for meditation. When Menard entered the hut he found the maid sitting with her head resting against one of the supporting trees. She wore a disturbed, unsettled expression. Danton evidently had been sitting or standing near her, for when Menard entered, stooping, he was moving across the hut in a hesitating, conscious manner. The Captain looked at them curiously.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to take away a part of your house to pay for your supper,” he said. “Everything is wet outside that might do for firewood. Lend a hand, Danton.” He gathered logs and sticks from the floor and walls, and carried them out. Danton, after a quick look toward the maid (which, of course, Menard saw), did the same.

The Captain was the first to reenter the hut. The maid had not moved, and her eyes were puzzled and wearied, but she tried to smile.

“Has it stopped raining?” she asked.

Menard gave her an amused glance, and pointed to a sparkling beam of sunlight that came slanting in through an opening in the wall, and buried itself in a little pool of light on the trampled ground. She looked at it, flushed, and turned her eyes away. He stood for a moment, half minded to ask the question that was on his tongue, but finally held it back. In a moment Danton came back, looking suspiciously at each of them as he stooped to gather another armful of wood.

Menard was thoughtful during the evening meal. Afterward he slipped his arm through Father Claude’s, and led him for a short walk, giving him an account of the incident. “I didn’t say anything at the time,” he concluded, “partly because I thought I might be mistaken, and partly because it would have been the worst thing I could do. I begin to see–I should have foreseen it before I spoke to him about the girl–that we have trouble ahead, Father, with these precious children. I confess I don’t know just what to do about it. We must think it over. Anyway, you had better talk to her. She would tell you what she wouldn’t tell me. If he’s annoying her, we must know it.”

Father Claude was troubled.

“The maid is in our care,” he said, “and also in that of Lieutenant Danton. It would seem that he–”

“There’s no use in expecting him to take any responsibility, Father.”

“Yes, I suppose you are right. He is a child.”

“Will you go to the maid, Father, and get straight at the truth? You see that I cannot meddle with her thoughts without danger of being misinterpreted. It is you who must be her adviser.”

The priest acquiesced, and they returned to the camp, to find the maid still sitting alone, with a troubled face, and Danton puttering about the fire with a show of keeping himself occupied. They ate in silence, in spite of Menard’s efforts to arouse them. After the meal they hung about, each hesitating to wander away, and yet seeing no pleasure in gathering about the fire. Menard saw that Father Claude had it in mind to speak to the maid, so he got Danton away on a pretext of looking over the stores. But he said nothing of the episode that was in all their minds, preferring to await the priest’s report.

After the maid had gone to her couch beneath the canoe, and Danton had wandered into the wilderness that was all about them, Father Claude joined Menard at the fire.

“Well, Father, what word?”

“Softly, M’sieu. It is not likely that she sleeps as yet.”

“Well?”

“I have talked long with her, but she is of a stubborn mind.”

“How is that?”

“She was angry at first. She spoke hastily, and asked me in short terms to leave her in solitude. And then, after a time, when she began to see that it was her welfare and our duty which I had in mind, and not an idle curiosity, she was moved.”

“Did she speak then?”

“No, M’sieu, she wept, and insisted that there was no trouble on her mind,–it was merely the thought of her home and her father that had cast her down.”

“And so she has pride,” mused Menard. “Could you gather any new opinions, Father? Do you think that they may already have come to some understanding?”

“I hardly think so, M’sieu. But may I suggest that it would be well to be firm with Lieutenant Danton? He is young, and the maid is in our trust,”

“True, Father. I will account for him.”

There seemed to be nothing further to do at the moment, so the priest went to his blanket, and Menard drew a bundle under his head and went to sleep, after a glance about the camp to see that the sentry was on watch. Now that Montreal lay behind, and the unsettled forest before, with only a thin line of Frenchmen stretched along the river between them and Fort Frontenac, he had divided the night into watches, and each of the four engagés stood his turn.

The following day was all but half gone before the wind had dropped to a rate that made the passage of the lake advisable. Menard ordered the noon meal for an hour earlier than usual, and shortly afterward they set out across the upper end of Lake St. Louis to the foot of the cascades. Before the last bundle had been carried up the portage to Buisson Pointe, the dusk was settling over the woods across the river, and over the rising ground on Isle Perrot at the mouth of the Ottawa.